


Don't be so hard on yourself- Prequel 1

by writingformadderton



Category: Rocketman (2019)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Eating Disorders, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, Triggers, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:53:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25525465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingformadderton/pseuds/writingformadderton
Summary: Richard is going through a hard time struggling with his eating disorder and his boyfriend tries to keep him going. Taron tries to make Richard understand that he needs help, which Richard refuses to get. After a hard day Taron talks to Elton and spillls more about Richards situation than he should have. Can Elton make a difference?
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	Don't be so hard on yourself- Prequel 1

**Author's Note:**

> This includes descriptions of an eating disorder and suicidal behaviour. It is Part 1 of the two prequels to "Don't be so hard on yourself", which I recommend reading beforehand

The day he finally decided to say something, Taron spent a while cooking a nice meal. He made a big pot of comfort food-bowtie pasta with chicken and broccoli, garlic bread- and opened a bottle of wine. He told himself, as he cooked, that if Rich came in and ate a bowl of pasta and had a conversation with him, drank a glass of wine and told him about his day, that he wouldn’t have to say anything else. If they had a normal dinner, then it would mean Taron had imagined all of the things that had been going on lately. He’d been imagining Richard’s shy, moody behavior; the way he declined almost all meals; the way he could barely keep his eyes open all day, he was so exhausted. How Rich’s hands shook at all times and the bags under his eyes. 

So he had made this dinner and was prepared to have a discussion with Rich if he had to. He didn’t want to-Lord knew he didn’t want to-but he would do it. If he had to.

An hour later, Richard came through the door, and Taron noticed, not for the first time, how pale he was, how weak he looked. “Hey, love,” Taron said softly, and Richard nodded at him, forcing a small smile onto his face. 

“Hey,” Rich said, and shrugged off his jacket, toed off his sneakers. Taron watched Rich from behind, at the muscles that moved underneath his thin t-shirt as he straightened up, at the way his hair had started to grow just long enough to touch the tops of his ears. Needs a haircut, Taron thought, idly. 

“I made dinner,” Taron said when Rich turned back around. Rich’s face immediately turned to stone when he looked at the kitchen table, laid out with the spread of food Taron had prepared. It was small, this shift, then gone in an instant, replaced with another tremulous smile, but Taron noticed it all the same. 

“Looks delicious, but I’m not hungry. Maybe later,” Richard said, rubbing his eyes and then giving Taron a hug. He buried his face into Taron’s neck for just a moment, silently needing the feel of Taron’s tight, protective arms around his body. Then he let go, not wanting to rouse suspicion. 

“Not hungry?” Taron asked after Richard let him go. 

“No, I grabbed a bite with Jamie,” Richard said, avoiding Taron’s gaze. “Gonna take a shower, i think.” He turned away from Taron and was heading towards the bathroom, thinking only of the hot water that would soon be pounding on his skin, when he heard Taron. 

“I can call Jamie and ask, Rich.” Taron’s voice was soft but it was firm, firm enough to stop Richard from moving any further. “Are you going to eat some dinner with me, or should I call Jamie?” 

“Don’t do this, T,” Rich said, his eyes pleading. He didn’t want to drag Jamie into this, didn’t want to rouse anyone else’s suspicions about his eating habits, or lack thereof. 

“Do what? Keep you alive? I know, I have a nasty habit of doing that,” Taron said with a wry grin. 

“No, you know what you’re doing. I can’t eat right now, I don’t want to,” Rich said, turning to go. Taron strode across the room and grabbed him by the arm. 

“It’s not a matter of wanting to, Rich. You have to eat. I know it’s hard, I know it’s painful, but you have to. Come on, just have a little.” Taron’s voice was pleading the same as Rich’s eyes had been, and he knew he sounded small and strange and sad, but he didn’t care. He’d do anything to make sure that Rich was safe and eating. He didn’t care how it made him look. 

Rich had turned and was staring directly into Taron’s eyes. “I ate earlier,” he lied. Another lie, how much longer do you think you can keep this up? He doesn’t believe you, anyways. 

“You didn’t eat earlier,” Taron said sadly, and it broke Richard’s heart, that he was doing this to him. Taron wasn’t angry or frustrated; he was sad. “Okay. Be honest with me. Be really, truly honest with me. When’s the last time you ate something?” 

Richard shifted his weight a bit, and tried to think. He’d meant to eat something yesterday, because yesterday it had been…Christ.   
“I had an apple.” 

“When?” 

“…two days ago?”

Taron’s face paled. “Do you really think that’s enough, Rich?” He asked gently, his words soft and comforting. “Do you really think an apple is enough to sustain you for days at a time?”

Taron’s voice was so soft and kind, and yet it brought nothing but shame to Richard’s mind. He couldn’t believe he was doing this to someone he cared about. Taron shouldn’t have to worry about him, shouldn’t have to wonder whether he was eating enough or sleeping enough or taking care of himself. What had he done to deserve someone to care about him so much? 

As if reading his mind, Taron reached out and gathered Rich in his arms again, allowing him to bury his head into his shoulder. “Do you think that’s enough, Richie?” 

Rich shook his head. He knew it wasn’t, his rational mind knew that he wasn’t eating enough. It was just that the other part of his brain was so much louder, and angrier, and insistent. “No, it’s not.” 

“Then will you try to have a little bit of dinner, for me? Please?” Richard hesitated for a moment, and then Taron felt him nod, stiffly, into his shoulder. 

Taron led him to the table and dished out some pasta, poured out two glasses of water. He watched as Richard studied the bowl of food for a moment, looked at it as if he’d never seen anything like it before. 

What Richard was really doing was looking at the food and wondering how on earth he was supposed to do this. How much did he have to eat before Taron would be okay with it? How much could he eat? His stomach was already in knots. His hand trembling slightly, he sunk his fork into his bowl and speared a piece of chicken, a piece of pasta, and a piece of broccoli. He set it down abruptly and took a drink of water. 

“Go slow, it’s okay,” Taron said softly. 

“You don’t have to watch me,” Richard muttered, picking the fork back up and finally taking a bite. The chicken was rubbery and bland in his mouth, the broccoli grassy and unfamiliar, the pasta limp and tasteless. He chewed over and over, fighting against the urge to spit it all out and vomit on the floor. It wasn’t Taron’s fault; the food didn’t technically taste bad. The fact that he could taste it at all was what made it taste awful. He wanted to spit his mouthful of food out, dump the rest of it in the trash, and then hide in bed for the rest of the evening. But when he looked up, Taron was still watching, and the small, rational part of his brain knew that he couldn’t go on like this. He knew he had to eat something, even if it was just this little bit. 

(And the other part of his brain, the part that was much louder and bigger and stronger, was telling him that if he ate this right now, it would keep Taron off his back and he wouldn’t need to eat for days afterwards.)

He was able to force down three more bites before pushing it away. Even to keep Taron happy, he couldn’t do more. “I can’t eat anymore, I’m sorry,” Rich said quietly, pushing the bowl away. He took another long drink of water and tried to ignore the way he was feeling. He could feel the food in his stomach, every bite, every piece, and he gripped the table. 

Taron came over to Richard’s side of the table and crouched down so they were at eye-level. “Good job, Richie,” Taron said softly, his voice rich and warm, and squeezed Rich’s forearm. “Do you feel okay?” 

Richard forced a smile onto his face and nodded aggressively. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” 

Taron smiled and cleared both of the bowls away from the table. “Why don’t you go relax and I’ll do up these dishes?” 

Richard went into the living room and threw himself on the sofa. His hands were shaking, and he willed himself to relax. You’ve just eaten some dinner. Normal people do it every day, with no problems. They do it after they’ve already eaten two other meals! You will be fine. You deserve to eat. He repeated the words in his head over and over, taking deep breaths as he did it. But the mean voice, the one that was always there waiting, was hissing that he couldn’t believe he’d done that; that he hadn’t needed to eat anything. It just kept repeating those things over and over, in a louder voice than the other words. He turned on the TV, tried to distract himself. But his stomach was churning, his palms were sweating, his mouth had filled with warm saliva, the final calling card that he was going to puke. He shoved himself to his feet and raced for the bathroom. 

He was filled with shame as he kneeled in front of the toilet, the contents of his dinner spilling out of his mouth and into the porcelain bowl. He couldn’t help it, he truly couldn’t, but it didn’t stop him from feeling embarrassed and guilty. At least T’s busy, he thought somewhere in the back of his mind, grateful that at least he would be spared from this. He could finish up and then brush his teeth and he’d never know that he’d–

And then Richard felt Taron’s warm hand on the middle of his back, rubbing slow, soothing circles. “It’s alright, love,” he heard Taron say, and he hated how comforting the small gestures were to him. He hated how much he needed it. He hated everything. 

When he was done, he flushed the toilet and pushed himself up, shakily, to his feet. He turned the sink on, letting the water flow, and then took slow sips from the taps, swishing it around in his mouth and spitting it back out. It was all so familiar: the acrid burning in the back of his throat, the beads of sweat on the back of his neck, the sour taste in his mouth. He hated that it was all practically routine. When he was done rinsing his mouth out, he sunk back to the floor, leaning against the tub and drawing his legs up to his chest. He put his head down on top of his knees, refusing to look at Taron, refusing to see the hurt in his eyes. 

“You didn’t have to come in here, you know,” he said, his voice muffled. Taron was chewing on his lower lip worriedly. 

“I wanted to. You needed me,” Taron said gently, pulling himself a bit closer to Richard. 

“I don’t need anybody,” Richard said, still muffled, sounding like a petulant child. It was a lie, of course; the only thing that ever made him feel better or even close to normal was Taron. When he was hurting, desperately, it was Taron that he wanted and needed to make him feel better. So why was he pushing him away? Because you’re fucked up and broken, you already know that, his mind hissed. 

“Don’t be a brat, you need people,” Taron said sternly, and Richard said nothing. After a few moments of silence, broken up only by the sound of the dripping faucet, Taron cleared his throat. “Hey, Rich.” 

Richard’s face still stayed buried in his legs. He was slightly dizzy, and his mouth still tasted awful, and he wanted to go to bed. He wanted to sleep and forget that this entire evening had happened. The only time he really had any peace was when he was sleeping, a dark veil draping itself over his brain and letting him rest, finally.   
There were, however, nights when sleep wouldn’t come, and those were the worst. He’d lay in bed, anxiety and depression poking at every part of him, along with hunger. Waves of hunger would claw at his body, and with no work or anything else to distract him, it was all he could focus on. Those were the nights he really thought that it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to swallow a load of pills and take a permanent nap. He’d finally get some relief, some peace, he’d finally be okay. Everyone else would move on. It would be alright. He never told anyone, not even Taron-especially Taron- about these thoughts. He’d get locked away for sure. 

“Rich, can you look at me?” Taron asked, and Richard pulled his head up and looked at him. “I have something I want to talk to you about.” 

“What?” Richard said, but he knew what was coming. Taron wouldn’t be the person Rich knew him to be if this conversation wasn’t coming. 

“I think maybe it’s time to get some professional help, from someone who knows how to help you. I’m…I’m trying, Rich, but I’m not a doctor. I can only do so much, and you’re really struggling right now. I just want you to get better.” It had taken effort for Taron to get the words out without rushing, without sounding nervous or like he’d rehearsed it 100 times in his mind, which he had. He waited for Richard to say something, but was met with silence for a few minutes. 

Until, finally- “I don’t need help.” It was quiet, but it was quick and firm. Richard’s face was pale from puking, but his eyes were fiery, blazing blue and fierce. 

“Rich, you don’t eat for days at a time and when you do eat, you throw up immediately after. You really think you don’t need any help?” 

“No, I don’t. I only throw up when some people try to force my hand,” Richard said bitingly, his words being hurled like a weapon at Taron. You did this, his tone said. This is your fault. For a second, Taron was hurt. Then, he was angry.

“Come off it. I’m not forcing your hand, I’m trying to get you to eat. You. Have. To. Eat. You’ll die, Rich!” Taron said angrily. “You’ll die, and I’m sorry, but I’m not going to let it happen. I’m not going to just sit here and let you starve to death. You told me you wanted me to help you, that’s what you said. So that’s what I’m trying to do. Because I care about you.”

The fiery look in his eyes had dimmed slightly as Taron talked, but he was still angry. “I know, and I appreciate you, I really do. But I don’t need professional help. This isn’t what I wanted when I asked you to help me.” 

“What did you expect when you asked me to help you, huh? Did you expect me to just rub your back and tell you it’ll all be okay, while I watch you waste away? That’s not the kind of person I am, Rich, and you know it,” Taron said with the same biting anger. 

“Well, if this is too much for you, then you can leave, by all means. I’ll be fine,” Richard said nonchalantly, and pushed himself to his feet. As soon as he stood up, the world tilted, and he grabbed onto the bathroom counter to stop himself from falling over. His head was spinning, and he felt like he was going to be sick again. 

Taron jumped to his feet and grabbed Richard by the waist to help steady him. “Hey, take some deep breaths, okay? Slow, deep breaths, and we’ll get you to bed.” He couldn’t ignore Richard, not even when he was angry, not in a million years. Richard listened to him, breathed steadily and slowly, and together they inched their way out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. Taron got him situated into bed, and then came back with a glass of water. “Drink this,” he said. 

Richard drank a little of the water, slowly, and put it on the nightstand. He waited for Taron to join him in bed, because that was what usually happened, but Taron didn’t slide into bed beside him the way he usually did. “T?” 

“I’m…I’m going to spend the night in my room. If you think you’re okay,” Taron said slowly, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Your room?” Rich questioned, suddenly feeling small and sad underneath the covers. 

“If you think you’re okay. You should stay in bed, get some rest. I know it’s early but…you need to rest,” Taron said, and the only thing Rich could think to do in response was to nod. “Good night, love.” 

Taron left, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

Taron slept fitfully, the rest he so desperately needed not coming to him the way he wanted it to. When he woke in the morning, he was groggy and cranky, his eyes heavy and his head feeling like it had been filled with sand. He’d spent all night worrying that he’d left Richard at a time when he’d needed him most. 

He was due on set at 10 a.m., and by the time he’d managed to drag himself out of bed, take a quick shower, and scarf down a granola bar, he was running late. He made it on set by 10:14, and Dex spied him as he ran in, looking flustered. 

“A little late, eh?” Dex asked playfully, crossing over to the room as Taron threw his things down. 

“Bad night, won’t happen again,” Taron said stiffly, hanging up his jacket. 

“Are you alright, T?” Dex asked, noting how anxious Taron looked and how he wouldn’t make eye contact with him. 

“‘M just fine. I didn’t sleep much, that’s all,” Taron said. He finally looked up at Dex and gave him what he hoped passed for a confident smile. It didn’t, but Dex was busy and the day was already running behind and he had fifteen other things he had to tend to. He did what most people would’ve done in that situation: he filed it away in his mind for later, made a mental note to inquire further, and then gave Taron a hearty slap on the shoulder. 

“If you’re sure, mate. I’m here if you need me. See you out there,” Dex said, calling over his shoulder and bustling away.

An hour later, Taron was sitting in his dressing room, in full Elton regalia, waiting to go out. They were filming the scene between him and Elton’s father today, where he brings him a watch and attempts to have a conversation with him. It was going to be emotional, and trying, and he was already exhausted. His head wasn’t there, it was back at the hotel with Richard, his brain going back and forth about how to help the man he loved. 

He was just thinking that he ought to get out there when he heard a knock at the door. “It’s open,” he muttered. He expected his assistant to stick her head in and tell him it was time to go, but to his surprise, Elton John walked in, the real Elton. He jumped to his feet. 

“Elton!” he cried, in genuine surprise and delight. It had been a bit since they’d last seen each other, and it was always nice to see him. Taron wrapped him in a hug and then kissed his cheek. “It’s been ages, I’ve missed you.” 

“I’ve missed you, too, my boy, it really has been too long,” Elton said. 

“You look wonderful,” Taron replied, sitting back down and motioning for Elton to take the chair opposite him. 

“You as well, you look like…well, like me,” Elton said with a grin, and Taron chuckled. They spent the next ten minutes or so just chit-chatting and catching up, and Taron marveled at how easy it was to talk to Elton. He could feel himself relaxing around him, as they talked about David and the boys, how the film was going, Elton’s plans for the farewell tour. It was like shrugging on a particularly comfortable sweatshirt, his relationship with Elton. 

He wasn’t planning on saying anything, didn’t know what he was going to say until it came out of his mouth during a slight pause in their conversation. “Elton? How do you…how do you get someone to get help when you know they need it?” 

Elton shifted forward. “What kind of help do you mean?” 

“I mean, when someone’s struggling really hard with something and they’re doing things that are hurting them, and they need to get some help. How do you make them see how much they need it if they don’t believe that they do?” Taron asked, and he didn’t like the pleading tone in his voice, but it was real, and raw. He was suddenly desperate to know how to help Richard, and he knew that if someone would have some advice, it would be Elton. 

“Who are we talking about?” Elton asked, and Taron paused then. Rich would kill him if he ever found out that he’d told his secret, especially to someone in the industry, especially to Elton John of all people. But he thought of Rich, eating those measly bites of food and immediately vomiting them back up. He thought of Rich, dizzy and weak and not eating. He needed help, and he’d cut Taron off from any other resources. 

“It’s Richard. He’s…he’s not eating properly. No, it’s beyond that, he’s not eating hardly at all, not unless I force him, and he brings it right back up afterwards. He’s getting weaker and weaker, and when I tell him he needs to get help he says that he doesn’t need it. I just don’t know what to do,” Taron finished, his voice trailing off quietly, tears forming in his eyes. 

Elton paused for a moment, studying Taron’s face, his own a mixture of sympathy and distress. “Taron, darling, you aren’t going to like what I have to say.” 

Taron chewed on his lower lip nervously. “That’s okay.” 

“And, to be honest, you probably already know most of what I’m going to say. I’m no philosopher,” Elton said gently. He didn’t want Taron to think he was some all-knowing prophet who could hand him a key. This, here, is what you’ll do, and it’ll fix everything. 

“It’s okay, I just…I want to know what you have to say. You’ve been through hell and back. Please,” Taron said softly, and Elton nodded. 

“Well, first of all, that’s scary fucking behavior and Richard absolutely needs to get some help. And I’m sorry you’re stuck in the middle here. it’s hard when the people we care about are making bad choices and struggling, right? It’s one of the hardest things there is. Because we know what to do that would help them. But the fact of the matter is, Taron, you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped. You can’t fix them, ever. You can’t make Richard go get help if he doesn’t want to, and you can’t control what he’s doing,” Elton said, his voice gentle yet firm at the same time. 

Taron’s tears had started to come harder as Elton talked. “I’m just worried that he’s going to kill himself,” Taron said. “If I can’t make him get help, what do I do?” 

Elton reached out and grabbed Taron’s hand, squeezed it. “You be there for him. I know you, and I bet that you’re doing the best you can to be there for him. Has he been doing this for a while?”

“Yeah, off and on.”

“Be there for him, but protect yourself, too. It’s okay to take some time away to keep yourself healthy. You can’t fix everybody, Taron. I’ve learned that the hard way.” Elton squeezed Taron’s hand again.

Taron nodded. He knew Elton was right, but he was so entangled in Rich’s issues that he couldn’t imagine that he wouldn’t be able to fix him, to make him see the way. 

A fire was burning in the fireplace and Richard’s head was tucked, neatly, onto Taron’s shoulder. It was raining, the kind of hard, hammering rain that soaks into your brain and lulls you to sleep. Good night, it seems to whisper in your ear. The TV was on but the volume was turned down, some home renovation show that neither of them was really paying any attention to, something to play lightly in the background. It was the kind of moment that Taron had always imagined when he thought of domestic bliss, and he was able to forget, for just a moment, how much they struggled sometimes. 

“I have an appointment with a therapist on Wednesday,” Richard said suddenly, his voice small but cutting through the rain. Taron sat up immediately, Rich’s head falling off of his shoulder. “Hey,” he said, smiling a little. 

“Rich, that’s…that’s wonderful!” Taron said, and it almost made Rich a little sad, seeing how happy this very tiny gesture made him. 

“Thanks,” he said quietly. 

“What…what changed your mind?” Taron asked, trying to sound nonchalant and failing. 

It had been a couple of months since Taron’s desperate talk with Elton, and he’d tried his hardest to let go of his natural desire to try to control the situation. He knew that what Elton had said had been true, and that if he continued to push Rich too much, he’d lose him. So he’d tried-desperately, furtively, intensely-to support him the way he needed, without pushing him too far. He urged him to eat something, but he didn’t check up on him for every single meal. He helped him stand and walk if he got too dizzy, or if he threw up. He told Rich it was going to be okay. 

But deep in his heart, Taron wondered how much of this he could stand. He loved Richard. God, how much. He loved him more than he’d ever loved anyone that he’d been with, with a kind of deep ferocity that scared him sometimes.

But as he watched Richard take three bites of a meal and then push the plate away, as he watched him get weaker, as he watched shirts hang off of his shoulders and jeans pool in extra fabric at the waist, as he watched his hands shake perpetually, he wondered just how much of this he could stand to watch. It was true that as the pressures of the Rocketman shoot had started to ease off, so had Rich’s intensity. He wasn’t getting worse, per se. He just wasn’t getting any better, and watching someone he loved operating at their lowest on a daily basis while being unable to fix it was grating on him. He’d started to wonder if maybe it would be better for both of them to take some time apart. 

How many times could you bring someone a glass of water and keep quiet about the fact that you knew they hadn’t eaten more than two crackers and an orange before you had to admit that you’d failed them?

But now, this. Rich admitting that he’d asked for help, had an appointment. It was huge, and he knew that Richard couldn’t see how huge it was. 

“What changed your mind, love?” Taron asked quietly, grabbing Richard’s hand and squeezing it tightly. He could see the small beginnings of a blush rising to Rich’s cheeks. 

“It was Elton, actually. We talked on set after my last day and…he was really helpful,” Richard said, trying to make it sound like it was nothing big. 

He’d been so nervous before the last day on set that he hadn’t eaten anything in a day and a half. He’d snuck off after they’d finished shooting, after all the hugs and handshakes and pictures and best wishes, intent only on changing and getting out of there to go home and take a nap. I’ll have a nap for dinner, he thought wryly to himself, trying to chuckle but finding no humor in the situation this time. 

He was on his way down the hallway when he was suddenly overcome with dizziness. He stumbled a bit and then stopped, leaning against the wall for support. Hope nobody’s watching this, he thought somewhere in the back of his mind, just before he felt a steady hand on his back. 

“Come on, Rich, let’s get you to your room,” he heard the owner of the hand say, and when he turned to look he saw-with a great rush of embarrassment- that it was Elton. 

“Oh, Elton, I’m fine–” 

“You’re not fine, you’re on the verge of keeling over, so come on,” Elton said brusquely, and Rich decided to just shut up and accept the help. They walked slowly and reached Richard’s dressing room quickly-it was a short walk- and he settled himself in the chair. Elton handed him a bottle of water from the small fridge, and Richard took a long drink. His head started to clear a little, allowing the true feelings of shame and embarrassment to flood in. One of the greatest musicians of all time, a man in his seventies, had had to assist him to his room. Christ, this is awful, he thought. 

“Thanks for your help, I’ve had a killer headache all day and all of the emotion of wrapping just got me a little overwhelmed,” Richard said, flashing a smile that he hoped was convincing. Elton was sitting across from him in a chair, his fingers steepled together. 

“No, you’re starving because you probably haven’t eaten in a few days and you almost passed out because of it,” Elton said simply, and Richard’s face flushed. He had to shake his head a little, convinced he hadn’t heard him right. 

“What?” He sputtered. 

“You’re not eating and that’s why you got dizzy. I can ring for some sandwiches if you like,” Elton said, not unkindly. “I’d be happy to have a bite with you.” 

Richard looked down at his hands, noticing how badly they were shaking from both hunger and the situation. He paused, searching for the right words. He thought about denying it-bold, brash words of anger filled his brain, words he was ready to let loose. But he just didn’t have the energy to hide or deny it anymore, and he seemed sincere enough. “Taron told you?” he asked quietly. 

“He was worried about you, and asked me for advice on how to help you,” Elton said. 

“What did you tell him?” Richard asked, not surprised or angry that Taron had asked Elton for help, but feeling just a little betrayed. In his rational mind, he knew it wasn’t fair to ask Taron to keep his secret forever; it was an enormous burden, one that had strained their relationship and put a fair amount of stress on Taron. Even still, he couldn’t help feeling just a touch double-crossed, just a bit let down. But there was no anger.

“I told him that he couldn’t force you to do anything you weren’t ready for, and to let go of the control a bit,” Elton said. “A bit of common sense, I’ll admit, but good advice still,” he said with a small smile. 

“Yeah,” Rich said, still quiet and thinking. 

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Richard,” Elton said, filling the empty spaces between them with kind words and a reassuring smile. 

“I’m in my thirties and I can’t eat a meal without feeling guilty. I’d say that’s something to be ashamed of,” Rich said bitterly, casting his eyes to the ground. 

“You’re in an industry rife with pressure about your body, and eating disorders don’t discriminate when it comes to their victims. So I’ll say it again, you have nothing to be ashamed of,” Elton said firmly. Richard said nothing, still cloaked in the shame Elton insisted he shouldn’t be feeling. After a long pause, Elton said, “But you should really consider getting some help.” 

Richard’s head snapped up. “No way.” 

Elton held his hands up in mock surrender. “It’s completely your call. But if you think that this won’t ruin your life, or potentially end it, you’re lying to yourself. I lied to myself for years. For longer than I care to admit, about my addiction and eating disorder. But eventually a time will come when you’ll have to admit that it’s controlling your life and ruining it. I don’t want that time to be when you’re lying in the hospital half-dead…or worse,” Elton said, his eyes reflecting a sadness that Rich didn’t know if he’d ever seen. 

“I’m scared,” he said simply, the only words he could even think of saying. His mind was blank except for an all-consuming fear, and he avoided Elton’s eyes. 

“I know you are. I know. But even though it might not seem it like it and even though this is terribly cliched, it will all be okay,” Elton said, his voice soft but firm at the same time, and Rich could tell that he believed what he was saying. “It won’t be easy, certainly. You can’t undo years of pain and self-hatred overnight. But you’re smart, Rich, and you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. You can do this.” 

Richard smiled a little as he remembered Elton’s soothing words. “And you, Taron. It wasn’t just Elton, it was you, as well. I want to be better for you. I want to get better for you. And…and for me, I suppose.” 

“Oh, love. You are the most important person that you should want to get better for. I told you before, I’ll love you no matter what, I’ll be here no matter what. I’m glad that you want to get better, but do it for you,” Taron said, and after he was done speaking Richard impulsively grabbed Taron in a hug and burrowed deep into him. Taron rubbed slow, soothing circles on Richard’s back, tried to still the river of anxiety rushing through him. 

“Do you think I’ll be okay, T?” Richard said, his voice barely audible, his deepest fears spoken to life. 

Taron pulled Rich away and looked deep into his eyes. “You’ll be more than okay, love. You’ll be brilliant.”


End file.
